Dolls
by pseudonym blue
Summary: After the war, Harry Potter has nothing. He spends several years locked inside, missing humanity but unwilling to face it. One day, an idea invades his mind and refuses to budge, an idea that's surely crazy. . . . HP/OC eventual Drarry. WIP.
1. The Idea

Dolls, by pseudonym blue

_Disclaimer- I had an idea. Harry Potter had an idea. J.K. ROWLING HAD AN IDEA, and it doesn't belong to me. This isn't for profit._

* * *

After the war, Harry Potter had nothing. By way of material things he was beyond well off, of course; he owned the house at Grimmauld Place and was the sole heir of both the Black and Potter fortunes. Yet there are many different kinds of Nothings, and the particular Nothing that afflicted Harry Potter was of the more internal sort, the kind that spoke of humanity.

He was alone. Ron and Hermione, the Weasleys, Remus, everyone was gone, nothing but imaginings, now, and empty graves. The Death Eaters had burned the bodies on the battlefield, corpses slung onto the rising fires as easily as if fires were always started with bodies in place of tinder. In Harry's mind it was as if they had never been. If he couldn't see or feel them, they didn't exist- it explained his misery over the summers, at least. The mind was dull and easily tricked- he knew the world by touch, and his world had gone, literally, up in foul smoke. All that was left, all that he knew was himself, flighty and flawed and curled inward against all outside things.

Kreacher had been killed shortly after betraying Sirius, and the house had gone further to ruin. To Harry it seemed poetic, the dust and decay; it fit with the general state in the world, or his world at least. The walls of the room around him were faded, once royal blue silk. (Harry had chosen the room because the blue-grey color had reminded him of the way the sky would look some days with a cover of clouds.) Something that had once been magnificent, towering, the unsinkable ship- something as powerful as the House of Black, _Tojours Pur_ - left to rot, treasures forsaken for things more new. Harry could almost sympathize with the purebloods now. He had watched for five years as the dust gathered around him, around a piece of history. He could imagine their helplessness as their world changed.

It might not make much sense, but Harry had a reason for staying in that house. He knew that, outside, there were people, and people meant touch and touch meant _sanity_- but he couldn't face them. (He knew he was thin and pale, unhealthy from lack of food and sun. He fixed himself dinner every day, and he drank water and pumpkin juice. He had food sent to the house by owl, and in the same manner he purchased books as a way to while away the time. He didn't _want_ to eat, didn't want to go outside.) He wanted to stay in his safe house as a memory to Sirius. It helped him to stay in solitude, it _taught_ him things. He would read aloud in order to maintain his voice, and he would study and learn new spells and learn about history. Being alone helped Harry to learn things about himself. His favorite color was blue, not green; once he applied himself, he _could_ brew potions; and, most importantly, he was a homosexual. He had realized this at around nineteen, when he had looked out a front window of the house and had seen a group of men, seemingly a few years older than he was, and felt a miserable need to leave the house and talk to them. It was pathetic, he knew. However, seeing as he had felt nothing for the human race but an abstract longing for over a year he decided that this particular impulse ought to be investigated. It had led to the realization of his yet-to-be-acted-upon sexuality. He was lonely, really, but he had known solitude before and could say from experience that it was the only thing to ever truly stay with him. Harry Potter missed people and tired of being alone, yes; it did not mean that he would go back to society so soon. In fact, it wasn't until late September three years later, at twenty-two, that he came up with his crazed idea, and he didn't begin the preparations for weeks after.

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**A/N- My first published fanfic! I'll update soon. The semi-scattered writing style is excused because my Harry in this story is sort of off from the war and being alone. Sorry for the super long paragraphs. Pleade review with what you think! ':)**


	2. Coming to Life

Dolls, by pseudonym blue

_Thanks to everyone who favorited this and set story alerts, I was amazed! Could you please review with what you think?_

* * *

Really, he ought to ignore it. It wasn't right, he couldn't do this. . . .

_Yes you can, you _need_ to._

Harry Potter was arguing with himself. The idea that had bitten down so forcefully on his brain simply _had _to be brought to life. It would fix everything, it would fix _him_. He had to do it.

He owled a notable wizarding architect with the plans for a fifteen-bedroom house- each room with an adjoining bathroom- with a kitchen and a large study with bookshelves built into the walls, four stories high. The wizard had owled back with ideas for room layouts and ideal areas to build it.

And so Harry Potter's insane plan began to come to life.

* * *

The _Daily Prophet _went wild at the small bit of news. Harry had no clue as to how they had gotten the information, but ideas flew across the headlines for weeks. No matter the differences in their ideas, they all carried the same theme- where has he been, and what is he doing now?

What Harry cared for he took from the house at Grimmauld Place, and all other things he left. With all he owned shrunk and packed into the same trunk he had brought to Hogwarts and with fifty thousand Galleons less to his name, Harry apparated to his newly built home.

It was made of wood and stone, and Harry was satisfied with the raw look of square-cut stone and unstained wood it presented to whoever would enter it. The architect had pressed him for more (_Surely marble would look much better than granite and limestone, Mr. Potter?) _but he had been very specific in his directions. He wanted a house that he could live in.

He selected a room on the third story of the house and went to work. He pulled out a square of the familiar faded silk that he had cut from his room in Grimmauld place and created more of it, covering the walls of the room. From similar squares he created heavy drapes from dark grey linen, pulling them closed over the windows. Returning the furniture that he had brought with him to normal size, he arranged the room, finally affixing the freshly laundered blankets on the bed and flopping down ungracefully.

The next several days would be spent adorning and furnishing the other rooms of the house and buying whatever things he might have forgotten. Now, finally, with his snarling, brain-ravaging idea sated, Harry Potter had time to sleep.


End file.
